Concrete Hell
by ElvenPirate41
Summary: Our favorite mentally unstable agent has finally been captured...
1. Taken

Righty-o! So this is a fun Sands-fic. Dark and depressing; you've been warned. A huge thank you to Raphe1 for pointing out a blatant mistake to me... but now it's all better! Read away!  
  
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I. Taken  
  
So the fuckmooks had finally done it. The CI-blows-dogs-for-quarters- A had at last taken down the infamous Sheldon Jeffrey Sands. Well, good for them. Now they'd have something to talk about at the water cooler. _They_ hadn't had gotten their goddamn _eyes _drilled out. Fuck them.  
  
These were the last thoughts of Agent Sands as the heavily armed agents, having wounded and disarmed him, came at him with a particularly nasty needle.  
  
He found it impossible to fight off unconsciousness, and for a long time he felt and heard nothing.  
  
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When Sands awoke, his head was pounding like someone was playing a fucking drum set in there. Groaning a bit, he tried to move, but his legs still burned from the bullet wounds he had sustained, and he couldn't move his arms at all. He was huddled on the floor in some silent corner of a concrete Hell.  
  
_Damn drugs must not have worn off yet,_ Sands thought groggily, confused at the touch of rough canvas against his hands.  
  
Somewhere deep in his head, a voice laughed at him. _'Think again...it won't kill you. You're in a straitjacket, fuckwit.'  
_  
Sands struggled to move his arms and realized it was right._ 'What? Why?'  
_  
_ 'You're insane,'_ it informed Sands in a distinctly matter-of-fact manner. _'Didn't you know? Everyone else does.'  
_  
The agent's head dropped onto his chest. _'I'm not. You told me I wasn't,'_ he argued feebly, pathetically, hating himself for it.  
  
The voice chuckled softly._ 'There you go, Sheldon. What remotely sane person takes advice from a voice in his head?'  
_  
Sands' breathing grew shallow. Suddenly the rough jacket seemed almost claustrophobic. He wasn't insane. He _wasn't_. He'd prove it to them all, if only he could get out of this fucking thing...  
  
_ 'You won't get out, Sheldon. They're not meant to allow that sort of thing. Accept it, Sheldon... it's just you and me here in the dark, like usual, until someone bothers to come and look at the ruin that was once a great man... if that time ever comes...'  
_  
_'I'm not a ruin,'_ Sands thought._ 'And I will get out, you'll see.'_ The voice expressed its amusement at his choice of words. _'Shut up, you... I'll get out and then you won't laugh... I've always gotten out of a tight place before...'_  
  
_'I've gotten you out. I've saved your ass all those times. You're nothing without me,'_ the voice sneered. _'You're nothing special without me... you might as well still be a scared-shit little kid with nowhere to go... just a little nothing..."_  
  
Something inside Sands snapped. "Shut up!" he screamed aloud. "Just shut the fuck up and leave me alone!" Blood was pounding in his ears and he was hearing those goddamn bells again.  
  
_ 'If that's what you really want... Just think about what I've said, Sheldon. But you'll get desperate... you'll get lonely... you always do.'_ And with a last touch of soft mirthless laughter, the voice receded, leaving a beaten Sands with nothing to listen to but the buzzing of an unnecessary light bulb far above him.   
  
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Well? It's the first chapter of five. I'll leave a couple days to allow for people to read and review -- hint hint --and then upload the next! Oh yeah... a Sands hula doll to anyone who picks up the phrase I stole from "Detroit Rock City"... awesome movie.


	2. Horror

Thanks to all who reviewed! I don't own Sands-- although it would be fun, the insanity factor might be a bit of a hassle.  
  
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II. Horror  
  
There were some questions, Sands had deemed a long time ago, to which it just was not worth knowing the answers. It was simply too much hassle. One such question was, 'Can blind people see their dreams?'  
  
What a stupid question, Sands had realized. Who really wanted to find out? The answer was, 'Of course, turdball.' Sands often dreamt vividly – sometimes too vividly. He could see, alright, but sometimes things would get weird, where everything was distorted. Like the sky might be purple and all the people would leer at him with green and pink faces, and the sun, which Sands distinctly remembered as being bright and yellow, might be black and suck in all the light. A nice little Black Hole Sun.  
  
In Sands' eyes – or lack thereof – a better question might be, 'Can blind people see _in _their dreams?' As for this, well, his dreams, just like everything else in his twisted little world, were really messed up to say the least.  
  
Sometimes he was his "normal" eyeless self. Sometimes he was just a skinny kid again, a nine-year-old Sheldon who dreaded going to school each day but always hated coming home in the afternoon. On a rare, pleasant occasion, he was his old proper self, eyes and all, restoring the balance as was vital.  
  
And every so often, when he was truly at odds with himself, he had the worst kind of dream ever; the kind that Sands, having fallen into a restless sleep, was experiencing even as he sat immobile in the corner. It was one of those dreams in which the dreamer is just a third-person type, a spectator, unable to interfere in or affect anything that would happen. This sort of thing Sands did not enjoy at all. He preferred to be in charge of everything, for often in reality he was not.  
  
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Sands was watching a boy of nine or ten, who somehow he understood to be himself, walking not far ahead. Young Sheldon was wearing all black even though it was a sunny blue-skied day. Sands remembered doing that. He had always liked black.  
  
He looked on with disgust at the boy's hunched walk, his hands jammed into his pockets, his face tilted slightly downward, staring at the ground.  
  
Sands wanted to take the kid by the shoulders and just shake some confidence into him; tell him to stand straight and look at the world and not the fucking ground while he still could. But no, he could only be a silent watcher, tortured by the fact that he could see again but do nothing. He had yet to see the boy's face.  
  
He continued to watch himself walk down to what seemed to be a dusty, deserted Mexican plaza. Strange, considering he'd never been to Mexico till his CIA days. Suddenly, the boy looked very lost, stopping dead in his tracks at the center of the plaza and turning his head – but never raising it – slightly left, and then right. Finally, the boy slowly turned around, and Sands, though apparently disembodied in this strange dream- world, fought back a wave of nausea.  
  
As if the majority of his life had never happened, young Sheldon's eyes were gone, naught but ensanguined caverns drooling thick dark blood down pale cheeks. Sands watched, gruesomely spellbound, as the boy crouched to the ground, gingerly touching sandy cobblestones, trying to find something by feel alone. Not locating what it was he wanted, the boy got on his hands and knees and began to tentatively crawl, brushing the ground with his fingertips.  
  
Sands, unusually aware of himself, was reminded of a time about three weeks after the coup d'etat when he had stayed at some shitty-ass hotel that smelled like vodka and a hooker's perfume. And grapes, for some odd reason. He had despite his careful efforts knocked his sunglasses off the splintery night table (where he put them when he slept, which wasn't often), and then accidentally kicked them across the floor. He too had crawled in search of something invisible, for a good ten minutes. Had he looked this pathetic, this fucking weak?  
  
Out of nowhere, a crowd of people began to form a circle around the oblivious boy. Everyone was there: Barrillo, Ajedrez, Cucuy, Dr. Guevara, even Belini, along with countless others he'd plotted against, or balanced out, or even just had a bad experience with. Hell, those fucking kids from his damn school days were even there.  
  
_ 'Some things just don't change... they just get worse,'_ Sands thought. _'You get beat up in middle school, you get your eyes drilled out when you're all grown up.'_  
  
The boy detected the sound of shuffling footsteps on rock. Abandoning his fruitless search, he scrambled to his feet.  
  
Sands felt full of hatred watching all these dickweeds enjoying the boy's desperation – _his _desperation. Cucuy, the traitor, grinning at him with a cruel scarred face. Dr. Guevara, complete with his goddamn blood- covered drill, the last thing he'd ever seen. Ajedrez, another betrayer, her gorgeous features disfigured by a smug smile.  
  
The boy turned every which way, not sure where to go, as the people began to move towards him. He heard the crunch of glass and plastic under the unseen feet of his enemies, and began to freak right out.  
  
Blood trailed ceaselessly down the boy's face. A small red river made its way down to his mouth; he licked it off dry lips with his tongue. Starting to panic, the boy's hands went to his hips and found guns that hadn't been there before.  
  
Like he'd been born to do it – the only sure and deft thing he'd done yet – he pulled the guns out of their holsters and began to fire around the circle. Shots rang out but everyone just laughed at him. He hadn't hit a single person.  
  
But wait – he _had _shot someone. _'Oh my Christ,'_ Sands thought in horror. Somehow, impossible except in this little corner of the Twilight Zone, every last bullet had hit a yellow t-shirt. He'd shot the little Chicle boy, ripping the poor kid apart, blood staining his clothes.  
  
And somehow the boy knew what he'd done as well. His fingers went numb and the guns clattered to the ground. Young Sheldon fell to his knees, helpless as the hordes closed in around him.  
  
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Sands woke up with a start, cold sweat permeating canvas, gunshots still echoing in his head. Fortunately that was all that was in there... no more taunts for now. He leaned his head back against the wall and fell back into troubled dreams, full of dust and stars and shattered glass.   
  
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Well, there's chapter 2 for ya! I've responded to everyone who I could via e-mail, but for those of you who didn't give one, here you go:  
  
**Spoofmaster-- **Well, anything for cheese! Hope this pleased you; it was rather a long one!  
  
Hey, anyone wanna drop me a review? I'll be your best friend! ;)


	3. Cell

Three-fifths of my story are up! In case you're finding any of this confusing, "this" signifies plain dialogue or spoken words, _'this'_ signifies Sands and the voice conversing, and _this_ is regular thought. Oh, yes, I'm having second thoughts about the title. I kinda just thought this one up on the spot so I could post, and I think it's only mediocre. If anyone has suggestions, tell me pretty please! Proceed!

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III. Cell

Sands awoke to darkness, to which he had grown accustomed over the long months. All he ever saw anymore was darkness.

He supposed this was true on more than one level. When he was just a young man, he had accepted that which society – in an irritatingly politically correct manner – called "his illness," what the voice in his head constantly told him was the only thing keeping him alive. Hell, he sometimes didn't know what to call it. All he knew was that it was as natural to him as breathing – as natural as shooting.

Sands tended to see the darker side of people as well. It was every fucker for himself, survival of the fittest. No one really cared for the troubles of any other poor schmuck. The most important thing was to live, to make it to the next day. Everyone who claimed they wanted to help had some ulterior motive to screw you over one way or the other. Ever since he was a boy he had firmly believed this, and the belief had been reinforced from within and without.

Which was why Sands had been so thrown – no, baffled – by the Chicle boy's willingness to help a man with blood pouring down his face, who had just a few days before told him to fuck off. He'd even said "I don't ever want to see you again." Well, alert the irony gods, he hadn't. The kid had been willing to aid Sands in murder, had saved his life even after seeing him shoot people down. Sands was fully aware that he was not a good person by any means... but the kid didn't know that. The only thing the kid knew was that Sands killed the bad cartel men, and that made him okay.

_The enemy of my enemy is my friend,_ Sands thought wryly.

That was another doctrine Sands had lived by for so many years, in the States and in Mexico. Setting things up and watching them fall. Baiting, setting traps, double-crossing. It was what he loved, what he lived for. But he hoped the kid wasn't going to hold to that lovely little adage, because it had ended up getting Sands up shit's creek without a paddle.

_'You're not careful, you're gonna start caring about that kid,' _he was informed lazily.

_'I do not,'_ Sands answered quickly. That was the key to winning these little arguments, to think quickly. Think on your feet. That was the trick. _'It's not like he matters anymore.'_

_'Like hell you don't,'_ the voice said, responding to Sands' first statement and ignoring the second. _'If you don't, then why did you tell him to run? Why didn't you shoot him too?'_

_'He saved my goddamn_ life,' Sands countered.

_'He saw you at your weakest.'_

_'He was a fucking_ kid!' he protested. So what if he did like the boy a little; he was a good kid. No reason to kill a child. Not that day, not most days.

-----------------------

"This is the one," said the young guard, whose ID tags proclaimed him to be one Matthew Evans. He stopped in front of a door, and Christine McCaslin, thirty-eight year old agent of the Central Intelligence Agency, stopped too. A troupe of armed guards halted behind them. She tucked a lock of brown hair behind her ear, partially out of the desire to look neat but mostly from nervousness. She had never been really comfortable in these crumbling Mexican buildings, not even with her badge, not even with a gun or two. Most of the decaying _edificios_ had been cartel-owned at one point or another, and they still held an ominous tang of pain about them, a residue of death.

This particular building had been seized by the government after the destruction of the Barillo cartel in the coup. It had presumably been used to hold, interrogate, and torture prisoners, which certainly explained the windowless, concrete cells and the stubborn bloodstains on the floor that no amount of mopping or scouring could remove.

"This is where Agent Sands is being held?" she asked, just for clarification. Evans nodded as Christine surveyed the door to the cell in distaste. It was steel, thick steel, with a little window that slid open and shut so prisoners could be observed.

"Is he dangerous?" she asked. A dumb question under any other circumstances; of course he was dangerous. He was Sheldon Jeffrey Sands, a legend in two countries. But now he was powerless, locked within the concrete cell.

"Shouldn't be," he responded. "We've got him in a jacket, he's unarmed. All he's done is sit in the corner. Mutters to himself sometimes. He's yelled out once or twice. There's a camera in there, though. He won't be able to hurt you."

"How badly injured is he?"

Evans shrugged. "From what I know, they had to shoot him up pretty bad. Arms, legs, shoulders. The doctors treated them but I doubt he's got much mobility."

Christine gently slid the little window open and looked in through a plate of Plexiglas at the prisoner of the CIA. He was indeed in the corner, but looking quite calm in his sunglasses, legs stretched out and crossed before him, his head tilted back against the wall against which he was leaning.

She closed the sliding window and tucked her hair back again. "Alright. Let me in, then."

Evans stepped forward and undid several locks and a massive steel bolt, also reopening the small window. "So we can watch, in case anything goes wrong."

She stopped him just before he pulled the heavy door open. "Bolt the door behind me," she said. "Keep the guards at the ready."

"But do you want one of us to go in with you? Just in case?"

Christine shook her head and patted the gun holstered at her right hip. "Thanks, but I don't think that will be necessary. I'll knock when I want out. Just check through the window to make sure everything's okay before you open the door." She had only seen Sands once at a meeting, but she had heard stories of how he'd made impossible escapes, never leaving any survivors.

He nodded again and pulled the door open. Christine took a deep breath, tucked her hair back one last time, and stepped in.

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Please review! It will make me very happy!

Review Responses:

**Spoofmaster**-- Thanks for reviewing! I don't show my email either, mostly because I don't want spam. Glad you liked chapter 2, this one's not nearly as violent, but we'll get there .... ;)


	4. Falling

Whee!!! This is a long one, kids! More psychotic fun!! ::does Sands happy dance::  
  
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IV. Falling  
  
Sands prided himself on not being daunted by anything. He prided himself on his composure, how he could make his face a mask to hide his true nature almost whenever necessary. And he prided himself on never acting like a blind man.  
  
Sure, he had taken to folding his money a certain way so he'd know which bill was which, and wherever he stayed he made sure his room was impeccably organized so he could find any given belonging in an instant. But he made a point of acting as if he could see, just to throw people off a little bit, keep them guessing. There was no glory, nothing worthy of legend in being a predictable person.  
  
El Pistolero Ciego.  
  
That was him. Sometimes he wished he could see, just for an instant, just so he could see the looks on the faces of the utterly befuddled as he explained his elaborate schemes that made sense in some unthinkable way. As he casually made some sarcastic comment. As he called them "sugarbutt."  
  
People were his toys.  
  
Sands heard clicking sounds even through the thick door. Sounds that could only be those of locks opening. Several possibilities of who it could be raced through his mind.  
  
It could be a doctor. Sands didn't like doctors: never had, never would. Between the constant fear that some shrewd spook in white would figure out his less-than-healthy state of mind that he worked so hard to conceal, and the incident with Dr. Guevara, he felt completely doctored out.  
  
It could be someone from the CIA. He rather hoped not, although what could they possibly do to him? He was Sands the Untouchable. Rules were below him. The worst they could do would be to kick him out of the Agency, but that was really okay by him right now. His badge was the hardest thing he had ever striven for in his life; he had worked his ass off for it. But so long as he was allowed to go, he could keep the balance without those fuckers.  
  
For a moment he imagined it might be El, here to shoot everyone in sight and spring him out of this trap, but the thought vaporized instantaneously. El was long gone by now, making love to his guitar or some other kind of mariachi shit.  
  
Well, it seemed he'd just have to wait and see. He was incapable of doing much in his own defense, unless of course it was only one person. As he had learned in training, it was possible to take someone out without use of the hands. Without standing – and without seeing – was another story, but it was possible. He could do anything.  
  
_'That's right,'_ a sleepy voice affirmed. _'We can.'_  
  
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Someone stepped into the cell and the door clanged shut. Sands didn't move; he was barely even breathing. His life was like a chess game that had to be planned out very carefully: he was black and everyone else was white, and white always moved first.  
  
"Agent Sands." So it was a woman. Her voice was untouched by any trace of a Mexican accent, rather, she sounded positively nervous. Sands wondered if she was pretty. That was at least one nice thing about being blind: in his world, all the women he spoke to were gorgeous.  
  
Slightly thrown by his lack of response, the woman continued. "I'm Agent Christine McCaslin. Of the CIA," she added quickly.  
  
_ Ya think?_ Sands thought amusedly. "Nice to meet you, Christine," he said cheerfully, moving his face in the direction of her voice. "Please excuse me for not getting up."  
  
This was met with silence. He gleefully imagined the look on her face as she searched for some kind of response; however, his face betrayed nothing of these thoughts.  
  
"So," she said finally, after a long pause. "You took out a good number of our top agents, Mr. Sands. Can I ask you why you were so resistant?"  
  
_ No. And is that an inclusive or an exclusive 'our'? 'Cause I sure as hell don't work for you shitheads anymore._  
  
"Agent? Did you hear me?" She didn't sound too much younger than he, but at interrogating murderers and renegades she was most likely quite inexperienced.  
  
"I heard you." He sighed and crossed his legs the other way, right over left, before answering. "They were trying to take me in. I value my life and my freedom very highly. And despite my efforts you quibbledicks still shoved me in a cell in a straitjacket, so there you go."  
  
Another pause. "You know that your actions against the Agency will most likely lose you your position and your badge?"  
  
"Yes, ma'am." She was far too easy to mess with.  
  
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Everything he said was either dripping in cheer or laced with what was surely a dangerous calm that didn't lull her into the least bit of security. She had not responded to a single thing he said with confidence, and she was supposed to be the one in charge here. And where had he come up with a word like 'quibbledick?'  
  
Some people had told her that he was an absolute madman. A genius, they had assured her, but plain crazy when you came right down to it. And muttering and yelling to himself, like the guard had told her, along with the complete lack of remorse he showed to killing his fellow agents, was enough to confirm his lunacy in her mind.  
  
Christine suddenly found herself wishing for a desk and a lot of paperwork.  
  
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"Agent, can I ask you a few more questions?"  
  
"If it makes you happy." Sands was beginning to tire of this little game. He wanted a nap. His arms were cramping something awful from having been wrapped around his torso for so long.  
  
"What was going through your head when you started shooting? What exactly were you thinking?"  
  
Jeez, did this lady think she was some kind of fucking reporter or something? Some kind of shrink? _Well, Christine, there actually were many thoughts in my head at the time. And less than half of them were mine.  
_  
"Well, I suppose I was thinking that I wanted out, and if a few people had to die on the way, so be it." He offered this with an almost friendly smile, wondering what the next question would be.  
  
"I see," she said after breathing heavily out through her nose.  
  
_I don't,_ Sands could not help thinking to himself.  
  
"Now, um, could you please tell me what went on with the coup and the Barillo cartel that led to your... injury?"  
  
Sands wondered if they had taken off his glasses when they'd brought him in. He wasn't about to wriggle his nose or anything to find out, but he hoped not. If someone was going to see him without them, he wanted to be awake when they did it, just to enjoy the reaction.  
  
"Well, sweetcakes, it's a long story. In the abridged version, I'm all by my onesie because certain fuckers of a certain agency refused to get me a team. I go to meet this bitch in a nice little dive, maybe get some good pork, she double-crosses me and drags me straight to Barillo himself 'cause it turns out she's his daughter, their loony doctor offs my eyes because I saw too much of their scheme, and then they shove me out into the street. I kill the little whore and begin the rest of my life."  
  
"What did you see? That they needed to... you know, do that for?" Her tone was unsteady.  
  
"I knew what Barillo was up to. I knew about the coup, about Marquez who was gonna take over afterwards. I knew the daughter was a spy in the Mexican agency. I saw Barillo looking like a fricking mummy after a nice bit of surgery. No doubt the handiwork of the same good doctor."  
  
"Right." Sands could hear the diligent scribbling of pen on paper. "Why didn't you report back to headquarters?"  
  
_Why indeed?_ he thought. _'Cause the little man in my head was telling me not to? That'd go over real well._  
  
"And how do you think I could have done that without seeing? I couldn't exactly hop into a cab and tell the driver to take me to the Central Intelligence Agency."  
  
_'Good, very good,'_ he heard faintly. _'If she underestimates you, we'll have far better chances of getting out of here.'_  
  
_'Why, thank you,'_ Sands responded cordially.  
  
Christine had finished writing. "I suppose that's true, but you still could have contacted us. Isn't an agent supposed to keep a cell phone on their person at all times, to call for backup or in case something goes wrong?"  
  
"Guess what," he said, with the manner of someone stating that the world is round. "I tried to do just that, after those bastards did their work on me. But, lo and behold, the line was out. Seems someone at HQ didn't want me calling in, didn't want to send backup."  
  
"Well, we'll look into that, Agent," Christine said, making another note. "I don't suppose you have the phone anymore?"  
  
"You suppose correctly," he said with blatant finality. "Are we finished?"  
  
"Yeah, I think that's enough questions for now. Another agent or I may come back later for more, if that's alright."  
  
"Feel free to stop by, sugarbutt, 'cause my schedule's free all day." Oh, if only he could see.  
  
"Well..." She searched for some gratuitous words of parting. "Thank you for your time, Agent Sands."  
  
He chose not to respond, at least not out loud. He heard her turn towards the door.  
  
_ 'Now's our chance. Make your move. Take her down.'  
  
'How? With what? She's too far away to reach.'  
  
'Shake your head.'  
  
'What?'  
  
'To make the glasses fall off, fuckwit. Don't worry, they're there. It'll keep her in here.'  
  
'And then what?'  
  
'Just do as I say.'  
_  
Obediently, Sands lowered his face and shook his head vigorously. There was a muffled sound as they landed in his lap, and he quickly moved so they clattered onto the floor.  
  
_'Good. Now, listen carefully.'_  
  
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Christine jumped a little at the sudden sound of plastic. She turned cautiously for fear of what she might see, deliberately not looking at Sands himself, but rather at the floor next to him.  
  
Yes, sitting unassumingly on the floor was a pair of black wraparound sunglasses. She found herself wondering if Sands' eyes would be blank and unfocused, like those who were naturally blind. Somehow she found it difficult to believe that so clever and dangerous a man would have such eyes; ones that were cold and intelligent would be more becoming. Mentally bracing herself like she did whenever she watched a late-night horror film, she looked at the man's face.  
  
Her first thought was, _Oh God, that's gross._ And so it was: where there should have been eyes was only scar tissue and scabbing. She thought they had just blinded him, with a chemical or a couple of cuts, not ripped out his actual eyes! And yet, she found the empty holes horrifically fascinating – they were incredibly creepy, but she couldn't look away.  
  
"Whoops," Sands said. "Shit." He turned his head to the direction where the glasses had fallen, and then back towards her. "You think you could do us a favor and just grab those? Put 'em back on? The light's a bitch to my eyes."  
  
"S-sure," Christine said, stuffing the pad and pen in her pocket but not taking her eyes off him for a second. _It's a trap, she warned herself,_ but then she thought again. _No, it was an accident. To get them and put them on his face will just take a second. I've got a gun and he hasn't, and besides, the bastard's blind and jacketed. What can he possibly do?_  
  
She put a hand to the holster at her side, just in case, and carefully moved over towards him. Keeping her eyes on his face, which looked remarkably thankful, she squatted to reach the glasses. Once they were safe in her hand, she shoved them onto his face and quickly stood up.  
  
"Thanks," he said.  
  
Then, all of a sudden, she found herself on the floor.  
  
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_ 'Listen very carefully,'_ the voice had said as Christine had walked towards him. _'When I say, kick her legs out. She'll have a gun that you'll have to get away from her. She's probably right-handed. Just follow my instructions, and we'll be okay. Got it, Sheldon?'_  
  
_ 'Got it.'_  
  
The moment the glasses were back to cover his sockets, he felt much stronger. He heard the agent stand; her boots made a scuffing sound on the bare floor. "Thanks."  
  
_ 'NOW!'_  
  
Deftly, he did a scissor kick that knocked her legs out from under her. There was a satisfying shriek and a thud as she hit the floor, completely winded.  
  
_ 'Get up, damn it, get up! Get her!'_ The words were screamed in his head, and for all he knew, flew right out of his mouth.  
  
He climbed to his feet and felt the cold tingle of blood returning to his legs. She was right in front of him. With one foot he found her right shoulder, and he stomped on it as hard as he could.  
  
"Drop the gun!" he growled as he did so, more as a hope than a command, and he was rewarded with the sound of something skittering across the floor. He moved that foot so it held down her wrist, and she cried out again as he put all his weight on her wrist so he could bring his other foot to her throat. "Don't move," he ordered.  
  
_'Good. There's a camera in here somewhere. Tell them the terms.'_  
  
He looked up and in every direction around him. "I'll kill her!" he shouted at the walls. "I'll crush her fucking windpipe if you don't release me!" She was gasping for breath, quite audibly. He hoped everyone watching could hear her. "I want out of this jacket and out of this hellhole, do you hear me?"  
  
There was no response, just the echo of his shouts.  
  
"You have thirty seconds to respond! I'll kill her, goddamnit!"  
  
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Christine thought that if he didn't crush her throat, he'd make her wrist explode, for having a grown man stand on these sensitive places hurt like bloody hell.  
  
_Calm down!_ the voice of reason told her, even as Sands was shouting about how he was going to kill her. Her eyes darted over to the door, where a rectangle of the guard Matthew Evans' face was visible and panicky. He was indecisive, she realized, of whether to come in now and risk her death, or wait till he had let her go and risk the man's wrath.  
  
There was no doubt in Christine's mind that she preferred the former.  
  
She locked eyes with the guard, and held up three fingers on her left hand. The feeling was already gone in the right, and she winced whenever Sands shifted his weight. Evans' eyes widened, and then he nodded.  
  
Christine lowered one finger. Evans turned, presumably giving an order to the others. She put down another. He waited for the final signal with anticipation.  
  
Then she put down the last finger, reached up with her left hand, and pulled at the leg on her throat with all the strength she could muster as the guards unlocked the door and burst in.  
  
-----------------------  
  
He was falling.  
  
_'NO! You shitface, no! Fight her!'_  
  
He heeded the voice and made his foot find solid ground. But suddenly there were footsteps, people everywhere, and the echoes made it impossible to discern who was where.  
  
There was a sting in his chest, and he heard countless echoes, and relentless bells, and a voice screaming failure, and then he ceased to hear anything.   
  
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Hooray! A long and dark chapter with some action! Lol... reviews, anyone?  
you know the drill... review responses for everyone below:  
  
**Anjelina--** Thanks for your review, it's quite encouraging! Hmm, well, I'd never say no to a Johnny poster ;)  
  
**Spoofmaster--** Yay for reviewers that keep coming back! Yes, there's only five chapters, as I've got the whole thing written and beta'd already.  
  
These good people reviewed, and so should you! ;)


	5. Lobotomy

Okay, guys, here's the final chapter!  
  
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V. Lobotomy  
  
When Sands woke up, all was very peaceful. In fact, he felt calmer than he ever had before. He didn't feel particularly aggressive; he thought he might be content to sit where he was all day long.  
  
A few thoughts kept returning that he did not really understand. For some reason, he kept seeing himself holding guns. He remembered a yellow t- shirt, and a woman, and something metallic that spun. And three letters kept floating around in his mind... C, I, and A. Or maybe they were G, J, and V. He wasn't really sure. But, he did not care to bother himself with figuring them out.  
  
And for once, the darkness was silent, completely silent. No thought flitted through his mind that were not his own. Even when that nasty little voice had been quiet, he had always felt its presence. Now there was nothing. He was alone in his head at last.  
  
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Christine stood somewhat angrily in the open doorway to the cell, looking in at Sands, who was sitting quietly on a bench that had been set up for him against the far wall. Matthew Evans stood behind her, peering over her shoulder.  
  
She eyed the scars on either side of and in the middle of his forehead, which were just beginning to heal. "Was this really necessary?" she said in a hushed tone which did not fully conceal how agitated she was.  
  
Evans shrugged, and spoke in a normal tone. "Someone thought it was. And you don't have to talk all quiet; he's not going to respond."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Remember how I told you he used to talk to himself all the time, and yell?" Upon a nod from Christine, he continued. "He still mutters some stuff, but he's much calmer. He doesn't say anything else at all unless you ask him something, and even then it takes a while to get a straight answer out of him. A bunch of agents and doctors came in and tried. You should have seen how pissed they all got. All he kept saying for five minutes or so was something about throwing shapes... whatever that's supposed to mean."  
  
Christine sighed in exasperation. Did those nameless agents and doctors have any idea that they had just destroyed the mind of one of the most brilliant agents in CIA history? Boldly, she strode over to the sitting man, and kneeled down in front of him as if she was speaking to a child.  
  
"Agent Sands?"  
  
Unlike previously, when he had moved his head to follow her own movements, even though he couldn't see her, it seemed that he hadn't even heard her. He simply continued to sit quietly, off in his own little world.  
  
"Sands?" she tried again. Nothing. She gently touched his forearm.  
  
"I wouldn't expect too much if I were you," Evans said from the door. She shot him a cold look and he shut up right away. She was just about to try his name again when she heard something that was barely audible.  
  
"I throw shapes..."  
  
Her head snapped back over to Sands. "What was that?" she asked. "Did you hear that, Mr. Evans?"  
  
"Hear what?"  
  
"He said something!" she said rather excitedly. "Throwing shapes."  
  
Evans gave a look of indifference and stepped back to lean in the doorframe.  
  
"Throw shapes..." Sands muttered. "They catch them..."  
  
"Who? Who catches what?" she tried, but he did not answer. _Well, even if dear Mr. Evans isn't the brightest candle on the cake, he had a couple things right, _she thought. "Do you know who you are, Agent? Can you tell me your name?"  
  
He just sat for a few moments, as if thinking hard about the answer. "I restore the balance to this country," he whispered. Christine frowned. "Shoot the cook," he said.  
  
What the...? "Who?" she inquired in confusion.  
  
"Shoot the cook," he insisted. "It's too good."  
  
"Agent Sands," Christine said firmly. "Do you know _where_ you are?"  
  
He made a noise as if humming to himself, and he lifted his head and 'looked' somewhere past her shoulder.  
  
"Sands!" Her frustration was mounting by the second. She waited and tried not to have a nervous breakdown.  
  
But all she got for her patience was, "Set them up, watch them fall..."  
  
Christine exhaled sharply and stood up, angry and disappointed. There was no doubt at all in her mind that Sands had been completely mad, but there were so many things she had wanted to ask him. It would have been worth being called "sugarbutt" a thousand times. Now she would never get her answers, and the CIA had lost its best agent.  
  
She exited the cell, and Evans looked up at her as if to say, 'Told you so.' In irritation, she looked back at Sands.  
  
"Watch them fall..."  
  
Somehow he seemed more of a madman now than when he had been calmly informing her that he didn't care how many agents had to die for him to keep his freedom, even more than when he had been threatening to kill her without use of his hands or his eyes.  
  
_How the hell did he even do that?_  
  
She shook her head and felt a wave of pity for the man sitting on the bench: a genius degraded, an agent corrupted, a legend brought to ruin.  
  
.  
  
End.  
  
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::hides under desk:: Don't hate me! Please don't hate me! Please! Okay, well... hate me if you must. But I didn't mean to do it, I swear! The idea came to me while watching "From Hell" and wouldn't leave me alone! ::flashes winning smile:: So... care to review?  
  
Review Responses:  
  
**DragonHunter200**—Thanks so much for your lovely review!  
  
**Spoofmaster**—Thanks! I hope you found the end to your liking... 


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